


Eight Days in Markarth

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Gen, Innuendo, Markarth, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Breton is detained by the Thalmor after investigating an altercation in the market. Their commander makes a surprising offer. She must decide between confessing to heresy in exchange for protection, or freedom and the unknown designs of the Markarth guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Stop! Kn...Knife! He’s got a knife!”

Rachel’s shout did nothing to stop the man, but the crowd took notice. In seconds, they spotted him and scattered, the woman who’d been the target seconds ago nearly knocking her over as she fled to the safety of the Silver-Blood inn.

Her attacker was close behind, shouting something about the Reach, off-hand extended and throwing a gout of flame--

The attack was cut short by a guard’s sword.

Rachel, who had thrown herself aside and tripped over the carved steps of the inn, scrambled away from the corpse and the growing stream of blood. It joined the constant flow of water in the gutter.

Then there was murmuring and yelling. Rachel forced herself to look up again. The crowd had returned, excited and fearful, a few onlookers shouting something about the nightmare of the Reach -- the Forsworn.

“Stay back!” the guard shouted. More of them were arriving now, trying to shoo the crowd away. “The Markarth city guard has this under control. There are no Forsworn here!”

Rachel was too stunned by the events, and the denial of them, to remember that she was sitting on the ground. What reminded her was a sudden movement over her, a blur of green and white clothes. She recognized the wearer of those clothes as Eltrys, a former metalworker, but it took her a moment. He hadn't been seen much since he stopped making deliveries to Ghorza's forge.

“By the gods! Are you all right?” he asked, offering a hand up. “Did you see what-- Your pants!”

Startled, she looked down again. The bottom of one trouser leg had caught fire, and the burning and smoke had just become too much to miss. Blood and other things forgotten, she doused it in the gutter.

“Well, that was close,” said Eltrys. “I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future.”

And before she could say anything, he reached down and pulled her to her feet, pressing a small, folded scrap of paper into her hands. “I think you dropped this. A letter? Lucky that didn’t get burned up.”

And with a meaningful look at the backs of the guards, Eltrys hurried off to the south, toward the mines and the warrens.

Rachel waited until she, too, was away from the crowd to open the note. She read it by candlelight in the great hall of Understone Keep, where few had business being.

_Meet me at the shrine of Talos after midnight._

\--

Leaving the Understone Keep was simple enough, at least after a warning from Ghorza. She promised the smith she wouldn’t be late for the next afternoon’s work and lessons, then tiptoed past the snoring Tacitus and out of the smiths’ quarters.

She peered around the great hall. Nobody was awake, except for maybe the dogs. Hopefully, the Thalmor had gone back to their war room for the night, and were not out to see her leaving at strange hours. They were the last people she wanted to know about her doing anything even remotely connected to the Nords’ hero-god.

The antechamber guards worried her less, and let her leave with a warning about werewolves. If only they knew, she thought bitterly, and hurried on her way.

She usually didn’t wander Markarth at night. Aside from having no reason to, it seemed unwise. One misstep in the dark could lead to a broken ankle or worse. But as luck had it, not only were the braziers lit, but the moons were full and bright.

She found her way to great stone hill in the city center. The Temple of Dibella and guard tower loomed overhead. Beneath them was a crag, one that had been smoothed and reshaped into a nice tunnel, a shortcut between the northern and southern halves of the city. She stepped into the tunnel and quickly found what she was looking for -- a simple door of dwarven metal.

Ghorza had warned her to stay clear of it before. To never go in the tunnel, or near the door, or else risk attracting the attention of the Thalmor. This had to be where the shrine was.

Rachel looked quickly at each end of the tunnel, then gently pushed the door open. It moved with a damning groan, and praying that nobody had noticed, she slipped inside and shut it again behind her.

It was another several feet of tunnel reaching deeper down into the hill before she saw it. The statue of Talos, cold face turned downward, eyes hidden beneath a sharp winged helm. It shone brightly, reflecting the light of so many candles. This bothered her. Either the candles were magic, or someone else had been here recently.

Eltrys wasn’t there yet. With nothing better to do, she sat down against one of the supporting columns of the room and examined the shrine more closely. She had a vague memory of descriptions of Talos, but no description like the shrine. It was off limits. Forbidden. That was the law of the Empire, and therefore Skyrim and Markarth.

The Nords complained about it, but the rest of the city regarded the subject with fear and distaste. Conqueror of the Reach in the distant past, idolized by Ulfric Stormcloak, rumored to be Sheor incarnate, Talos had few worshippers among the Bretons, if any at all. As for the rest of the city, they had no choice but to be quiet about their worship.

She rested her chin on her hands and leaned forward to get a closer look. Talos was holding a long sword, driving it into the open mouth of a serpentine dragon under his boot. Was it Akatosh? The Nords worshipped Akatosh too, so that didn’t make sense.

The blessed part of the shrine itself was easier to figure out. It was a small statue of an axe, the chosen weapon of Ysgramor (another name cursed among Reachmen), and many who wanted to follow in his footsteps.

The door creaked open again. Rachel stood and leaned into view of the slope to watch the newcomer arrive.

Boots came into view. Well-polished boots, and the golden hem of black robes. Her stomach plunged. Only one person in Markarth wore those. And she knew, because she spotted him in the keep often enough. But what was he doing here?

Her feet moved on their own accord. She threw herself gracelessly -- and painfully -- on the floor behind the Talos statue and out of sight. Then she cringed and waited for her doom. Her doom had probably seen her acrobatics and heard the rough landing.

The click of his boots on the floor stopped. There was an agonizing pause in all noise. And then….

“I know you’re behind the statue, Rachel, apprentice of Ghorza gra-Bagol,” said the Thalmor. “And I’m disappointed. I thought you were better than this.”

“I’m… I’m not a… not a T-Talos worshipper,” she managed to reply.

There were more footsteps. “I hope not. But your presence here is incriminating, and your guilt is written all over your… posture,” he said, with a note of disgust.

Rachel looked up. The boots were only a few feet from her face. She pushed herself up onto her knees, hoping that looked more appropriate and polite, not daring to get up.

“That’s a bit better,” said the Thalmor.

She risked a look up at his face. The features were difficult to make out in the lighting, but it also didn’t help that his face was partially hidden by a hood, or that she was kneeling and Altmer were taller than the gods should have allowed. But she only knew of one Thalmor in all of Markarth who wore those robes -- Ondolemar, their commander. She felt sick.

“Now, if you aren’t worshipping the false god, then what exactly are you doing in his shrine in the middle of the night?”

Rachel hesitated. Eltrys would be there soon! That wouldn’t make it easier, and she didn’t want him to be caught up in her mess. And she immediately realized it would be even worse for both of them if the Thalmor were surprised when he turned up.

“A man asked me to meet him here tonight.”

Ondolemar’s voice twisted in disgust again. “Here? Surely not. There are better places than under the gaze of this statue!”

“It’s not like that,” Rachel said quickly, hoping he couldn’t see her blush. And what did he mean by better places? For the act he had implied? Why would he know? She tried not to imagine that. “There was an attack in the market earlier. You… uh… you’re important. You must have heard….”

“And you came here to discuss it?” Ondolemar paused. She nodded. Yes, that was what she assumed. “Interesting. But most unwise. Shall we wait for him, then? Or do you have another way to prove your claim?”

“He gave me a note right after the attack. It’s in my bag.”

The mer was silent for a moment. Then…. “Very well. Let me see this note.”

Rachel slipped the knapsack off her shoulders and fumbled with the strap. Her rags, gloves, and tomorrow’s lunch were nestled inside. But that was all.

“I… I don’t believe it. It was right there….”

“On your feet,” the Thalmor said quietly. “We’re going back to the keep. Ghorza shall be informed of your arrest in the morning, as will your Jarl.”

Arrest…?

Rachel felt her mouth grow dry and heavy. “Oh no. No, please. Not the mines….”

“Were you even listening?” Ondolemar sounded irritated. “No, Breton. You’re not going to the mines. I can’t question you in there. Now get up.”

\--

Her hands weren’t bound. Ondolemar led the way back to the keep and through the halls, carrying her bag in one hand, probably as leverage. She considered running, but he had her things, and where would she run to and how far would she get before the Thalmor caught up?

She’d expected to be taken to the war room. There’d been rumors about the Thalmor interrogating people in there. Especially in a time over twenty years ago, before she had been born. She was relieved when the Thalmor didn’t take that path, but instead turned down another hall. Relieved for about five seconds. What if there was something worse than the war room? What if the keep had a whole dungeon and torture chamber nobody knew anything about?

Instead, the Thalmor led her to what looked like a house within a single room of the keep. Not just a house, but a barracks, she quickly corrected herself. Like most homes in Markarth, many of its shelves and beds were carved directly out of the stone. And that was where the similarities ended. There were extra beds, including some made of wood. There was more wooden furniture, and a set of tables and chairs. There was even a fireplace between the living and sleeping areas, with its own set of chairs and a rug in front of it. The whole place had a faint floral scent; there were sprigs of lavender everywhere, loose and in baskets or pots, on shelves or at different points along the wall.

There were more Thalmor than she’d ever seen in one place. A few were sleeping, dressed in silk gowns. Then there were two relaxing at one of the tables, and a Khajiit in simple clothes sat nearby polishing an elven helmet. They’d looked up as Ondolemar brought her into the room, then returned to their drinks and work.

Of course they didn’t sleep in the war room. What had she been thinking?

“Take the bed in the far corner. We’ll speak more in the morning.”

With that, Ondolemar returned her bag and left, shutting the dwarven doors behind him.

Rachel stared at the other Altmer for a moment. They paid her no heed, so she tiptoed to the back of the room. Her bed was furthest from the door, and the fire, but looked a little more comfortable than what she normally had. She took off her boots, carefully laid them on the floor with her knapsack, and pulled the blankets over herself.

It was a lot softer than she was used to, padded with a few blankets. Less scratchy than Nordic pelts.

Sleep did not come easily. She didn’t want to think about whatever awaited her in the morning. What if the Thalmor tortured her? Or worse, what if the Thalmor tortured her and then sent her to the mines anyway? What if she got burnt on the silver and killed, or exposed?

She was still awake when Ondolemar returned several minutes later. There was a whispered conversation between him and the Khajiit.

She rolled over, trying to block everything. The firelight, the whispering, everything. The scent of lavender, however, had sunk deep into the blankets and was impossible to escape.

Her thoughts turned to the life she’d had an hour ago. Her own bed roll, on the floor, rougher and less pleasant than this, but friendly. Her apprenticeship. Ghorza.

Ghorza was going to kill her when she found out. Assuming she survived long enough to see her again.


	2. Chapter 2

“So… I’m… really not to be sent to the mines, then?”

She turned the hunk of bread she’d been given over on the silver plate, nervously scraping the thick crust with her gloved hands.

“In any other circumstance, for any other violation, you probably would be,” Ondolemar said. “You know the law. But as you are suspected of violating the White-Gold Concordat, your fate lies in the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion first. And while the Jarls must approve of the arrest, or at least be informed in… certain circumstances, they are in no position to argue once sufficient evidence is provided.”

“But I don’t worship Talos,” Rachel groaned for the twenty-something-th time that morning. It had the same effect as every other time – none at all.

“Even if I were to believe you, you’d have another problem.” Ondolemar lowered his voice. “You remember the excuse you gave last night, I hope?”

It was awfully hard with the threat of torture hanging over her. Then she remembered. Something about meeting a man. Eltrys. She nodded.

“What your friend -- and we _will_ locate him -- seems to understand better than you is that the city guards aren’t overly fond of people investigating murders. Even the rare failed ones. And if you’d been discovered by the city guard instead of the Thalmor last night, you would not be the first Breton to go to Cidhna Mine for asking questions.”

“Wait. Over… a murder?” Rachel asked. “I thought they just didn’t want anyone talking about the Forsworn. Making everyone panic.”

Ondolemar’s eyes narrowed a bit. “I’ll get to the point. If you are innocent of heresy, then the Aldmeri Dominion’s claim to you is nonexistent, and you will be at the mercy of your Jarl and any mysterious charges that might arise.”

“But… why would they….” It became clear, what he was implying. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so hungry. She felt sick, though. “So you’re saying... I’m doomed one way or the other….”

The Thalmor stood and spoke normally again. “My position gives me the power to deal with the heretics of Markarth and the surrounding holds as I see fit, pending formal approval from First Emissary Elenwen. And I can be merciful.”

Rachel weighed her options. The Thalmor? Or the uncertainty of arrest at the hands of the Nords.

“All I need to invoke the Thalmor’s right of custody is irrefutable evidence,” Ondolemar said. “In this case, your confession. Even the Jarl cannot contest that.”

“But…”

“Yes?”

She struggled to find words to argue.

“But we don’t know if the guards know about me yet,” she finally said. “I mean… that’s… a really generous offer, uh… sir.” How did one address the commander of the Thalmor, anyway? He didn’t object to ‘sir’. It would do. “But… I just can’t take it yet. Not knowing things.”

And why was Ondolemar offering to ‘be merciful’ at all? The Thalmor had a different reputation. He wanted something. That was it. What was it he was after?

“I can imagine this is difficult,” Ondolemar said. “You have a week and a day to make your decision. Longer, if I can stall the Jarl. But until then, you are not to leave this room for any reason. My guards will be keeping a close eye on you.”

\--

Rachel was thankful to be left alone for the rest of the morning. Not because it gave her time to think, but because it gave her time to eat finally and think about _anything else_. After getting her breakfast of bread down, she retreated to her corner of the room to read.

 _Before the Ages of Man_ was useful. It was new and wordy enough to keep her mind focused on processing its contents. Why the Thalmor even loaned it to her she didn’t know, as the book started off with a mention of the ‘Nine Divines’.

She was left alone for lunch, too. Ondolemar and guards came and went, but she was never left without at least one off-duty justiciar. She stayed on her bed, flipping through one book after another and nibbling on the contents of her lunch rations she’d packed yesterday. Normally she’d eat in the shade of the forge roof. Now it kept her from awkwardly approaching her captors and figuring out how to ask for a midday meal.

She grew thirsty though, and eventually got up to look for something to drink. The cups were all silver. This was going to be tricky. She heard one of the elves huff in irritation behind her as she carefully poured herself some water. After a somewhat awkward scene, where she tried to drink from the cup without touching it with her lips (and failed, resulting in a small burn), she returned to her corner in shame and did not look up again for a while.

The dwarven doors swung closed later in the afternoon. Rachel looked up from her reading at last. The Khajiit was finally back, bent low over the table where Ondolemar sat, whispering something to him. They were both frowning at something on the table.

Ondolemar looked up suddenly, catching her eye. “Breton, come here.”

Tired, head swimming from the sudden return of anxiety (and perhaps the sudden change in posture), Rachel slid off her bed and crossed the room. Ondolemar pushed a creased paper across the table.

“Do you recognize this? Ah, I see,” he said, as her eyes widened. “Sit.”

She slipped back into the chair across from him.

“Is this what you wanted to show me last night?” the Thalmor asked.

“Yes….”

“Normally, this would make a poor defense. All it proves is that you intended to be there with someone else. You could have easily been arranging a meeting with a heretical priest, or any misguided Nord.”

“Or it could have been an illicit encounter with a married man,” Rachel muttered.

She quickly regretted the jab, but he did not seem to take offense. He didn't even mention what he'd said last night. Instead, Ondolemar looked mildly interested. “Was he married, the other suspect? I’ll make a note of that.”

Shit!

“However, Ren’dar knows why this note went missing from your bag,” he said.

“It was in the guard tower,” the Khajiit explained in a low hiss. “Interestingly, the guard presence around the shrine is increased. And they are following a man. A Breton man. Skinny, orange hair, tattoos on his face. Ren’dar saw the guards confront him.”

“Eltrys?” Rachel gasped.

Ondolemar’s smile widened. “So that’s who gave you the note!”

She covered her mouth, then bit her hand.

“Thank you for being so forthcoming. Your cooperation will be noted as well. I wonder if the wife knows more….”

“He’s not a Talos worshipper either,” Rachel said, sinking lower into her chair. “You _can’t_ arrest him!”

“Conspiring to meet at a shrine of Talos is incriminating enough. And I suggest you remember your place, human, and your own situation.”

“He just wanted to talk about the attack, where the guards wouldn’t hear,” she pleaded. “Nobody’s supposed to go to the shrine. Nobody would be there. Not even the guards. That’s why I was there.”

The Khajiit sighed, and Ondolemar leaned back in his chair. “If this is the truth, then once our time is up I will have no choice but to release you from my custody. But I would remind you first -- the guards found this note in _your_ possessions. They will not ignore you now.”

So that was it. Take a chance and confess to a crime she never committed, a crime punishable by death in even the smallest circumstances, on the chance that the Thalmor would keep his word and not let that happen. That, or face the guards, and go to the mines, for how long she didn’t know, and there would be all that silver….

“Starting tomorrow, you have seven more days. I suggest you use them well.”


	3. Chapter 3

Rachel had no idea how Ondolemar expected her to use her time with them. Trying to decide between the Nords and Thalmor was still impossible; they’d made it clear the Markarth guards were up to something, but a large part of her wanted that to be false because the Thalmor had always been a more mysterious and terrifying reality, and if they _wanted_ her to stay in custody it was in their interest to invent a danger outside their barracks.

They had to be lying. But the mines were too much of a risk. _But_ the Thalmor were also dangerous.

And so her mind went in circles until what had to be the early hours of morning. And just when she thought she was tired enough to pass out, another Altmer… maybe two… got out of bed and started putting on their armor.

The questions were definitely enough to keep her awake at night, but she couldn’t imagine pondering them every day for an entire week. And she had a week, after all. Why use all of it asking herself the same things over and over again when the Thalmor apparently had a Khajiiti spy looking for the answers?

Of course. The Khajiit was Thalmor too.

A better use of her week would have been finding answers for herself, so she could trust them. Which was impossible, since she didn’t want to wander in front of the guards, and the Thalmor most likely wouldn’t let her leave the room anyway.

And so she fell back on reading.

The entirety of her second day, after she'd finally had a bit of sleep, was spent hiding in a distant past -- one that had nothing to do with her.

She gave up on _Before the Ages of Man_. She understood a bit of it; the elves took over almost all of Tamriel thousands of years ago, and then humans arrived. Everyone else had lived there first. Other than that, there were too many references to Aldmeri history she didn’t know about, so it was too hard to read, which let worrying thoughts creep back in, until her eyes were scanning the text but all she was hearing was her own voice telling herself why no options were the safe option. She put it aside.

_Amongst the Draugr_ was interesting, but another odd choice for some justiciar's collection. The last book she could understand, since it at least explained the basics of elven history after that heretical little acknowledgment of a ninth Divine. But draugr? Those were a Nord thing. Just one more Nordic horror, if all of them really were thralls to undead priests, like the book said. And no longer a myth to her, if a mage really had gone to study them and written a book about it.

That wasn’t a bad idea, said a little voice in the back of her mind. Run away to Winterhold. She imagined it for a minute. It would require escape, but if she made it that far…. It was cold but she could hide in the college. There were no Thalmor there, right? No, that was silly. Winterhold belonged to the Stormcloaks. Stormcloaks who wouldn’t bother with the college either, because Nords hated magic.

By the time she got to _Sovngarde, a Reexamination_ she was suspicious. What did the Thalmor care for a Nord afterlife? (It certainly explained the barbarism of the Nords, though. The promise of an eternity of drunken fights and ‘wenches’. And of course that was Sheor’s doing.)

As if that weren’t confusing enough, there were notes scratched into the margins of some of the pages.

_no wonder lorkhan was exiled_

_find more regarding draugr_

And then there was _The Falmer: A Study_. She’d heard of Falmer too, and wondered why they shared the _mer_ suffix with the elves. They _were_ elves. Snow elves. Snow elves slaughtered by the Nords. Snow elves who’d fled underground to seek help from the Dwemer.

Whoever had written in the margins of this book had clearly been more appalled than she was. They were also angered by the assertion that elves who were blinded would pass the blindness on to their offspring ( _that’s not how it works!)_ , and that generations of war and life underground ( _damn dwarves_ ) could reduce any race of tall and mighty Aldmer to goblins ( _even lorkhan couldn’t come up with this shit_ ).

She looked up and recognized the Thalmor who had loaned her those books immediately. He was sitting by the fire, wearing a black robe for the evening, hunched over some thick tome.

Rachel found herself considering new options. Options more related to boredom and growing curiosity than the larger situation.

No, that was a bad idea, she told herself, while already stacking the books back up. He, too, was one of her jailers, and any interaction with the Thalmor was likely to end in ruin. Even though in her case it hadn’t yet.

Yet.

The second day, out of eight, was almost over.

Curiosity won over sense. Curiosity, and the return of _thinking about things_ \-- the enemy of her sanity that had to be avoided at all cost.

He noticed her standing next to him before she could say anything.

“What do you want, prisoner?”

“I… ummm….” She looked down at the stack of books in her arms. “Thanks for letting me borrow these. Are they yours?”

The Thalmor turned his head to look at her. “What kind of question is that?”

“Well, I noticed those… er… annotations…”

“And?”

The conversation was already dying. Fast. But leaving would have been more embarrassing.

“I didn’t know the Thalmor read.” Of course she'd been talking about it as a hobby. The Thalmor looked insulted. “Read about… stuff like this, I mean,” she added hastily.

He still looked indignant. “If you’re in the mood to talk, go see Ondolemar.”

“Sorry. Actually, I was wondering, if… uh… do you have anything else I could borrow?”

The Thalmor considered for a few moments, then handed her a thin book. She read the title page.

_Letters for Barbarians_.

Fine. Two could play that. She'd exhausted all her willpower to be calm and sensible for the day. “I see. It was very brave for you to show me this.”

He looked stunned. Then outraged. That had probably been a mistake, Rachel thought. That conversation was dead. Beyond dead. It was so dead its soul had been killed too before it could travel to Aetherius. She was probably dead too.

But before she could make any kind of apology, the Thalmor had shoved a new book at her, with an irate, “Now be a good dog and leave me alone.”

She looked at the title.

_Physicalities of Werewolves_.


	4. Chapter 4

The same Altmer was present the next day during lunch. She approached him again as soon as he took his helmet off; he was easy to recognize once his braided white hair emerged. He noticed the book in her hands, and broke away from his partner to talk.

“Okay, I’m sorry for yesterday,” she whispered before he could say anything, and glanced around in case anyone was listening. The other Thalmor didn't seem to pay attention to her, but she didn't trust them not to when it mattered. “This is too much. I can't read it.”

The Thalmor’s face softened a little. “Perhaps that _was_ too strong. Very well. I’ll give you another chance. What do you want to read?”

She stared at him. She had stopped caring about books last night, at some point in the middle of reading the compilation of torture reports the mer had given her.

She tried to phrase her anxieties carefully. Instead, it came out more like, “Is there something that you and maybe the rest of the Thalmor here know that you’re not telling me, that I might actually know about, and would rather people didn’t know, that I wish weren’t a thing at all, and you all know that?”

“What, that you’re a werewolf?”

That awful dry feeling was back in her mouth. But if the Thalmor really did know, and nothing bad had happened yet…. She nodded slowly.

“I’ll be sure to inform Ondolemar that his suspicions were correct. He will see to you accordingly.”

Her relief turned into panic.

“Stop looking at me like that. You really should have come clean sooner,” said the Thalmor. “That would have made this so much easier. How in hells did you even survive this long in Markarth?”

“What do you mean Ondolemar will ‘see to’ me?”

“I imagine he’ll start with a collar, with a little inscribed tag just in case you get lost. … That was a joke, Breton.”

“I’m not… going to die?”

“No,” the Thalmor sighed. “You are… most likely not going to be executed. Not for this, at least. Whether you drop dead on your own before we decide is up to you, but inadvisable.”

She glared at his feathery-looking pauldrons. The danger had passed, but the dread lingered, and so did the irritating urge to cry. What kind of twisted Thalmor humor was this? Ghorza’s humor was grim at the worst, but never so….

“Damn it, human,” the elf hissed, “Do you want a new book, or not?”


	5. Chapter 5

Rachel was relieved that beyond the Thalmor having a brief talk with Ondolemar -- and Ondolemar assuring her that she would not be harmed as long as she did not go on some bloody Hircinic rampage as Nord werewolves were wont to do -- the subject of her lycanthropy was not breached again.

It was uncomfortable to have their knowledge of that hanging over her head now. What if that became leverage? But, she reasoned, the Thalmor were observant and if they had figured it out beforehand it was as though nothing had changed.

 _Why_ Ondolemar was so willing to overlook that was almost as confusing as _why_ he was willing to protect her from the Nords at all.

Which meant the fourth morning was spent with her head in the books again. This time, a biography.

Kynril, as that Thalmor was called, seemed apologetic for the werewolf scare, if it was possible for Thalmor to be apologetic at all. So he had offered to let her read _The Real Barenziah_. That was the last book he could spare at the moment.

She couldn’t meet his eyes when she returned it over lunch; she didn’t want to start laughing. Ever since the second chapter, she had started involuntarily imagining him sitting around in his armor, reading the barroom scene with the same perfectly serious face he had during all of his reading.

But she’d had an idea.

“You like history, right? History about Skyrim?”

“It’s… a useful field of study,” he said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“Have you ever talked to the court wizard? Calcelmo?”

To her surprise, he hadn’t. “I am not interested in his obsession with the Dwemer.”

“Okay, but, they _were_ around in the Merethic Era, same as the ancient Nords and Falmer, right?”

“Yes…?”

“And they interacted, right? Think of the secrets they must have known.”

He rose from his seat. “What are you trying to ask for?”

“I’d really like to go see Calcelmo,” she said to the air vent. “But I’m not supposed to leave. And I thought, since you had a lot to say about the Dwemer, and I really enjoyed your notes by the way, maybe you’d--”

“All right, fine. I’ll go ask Ondolemar. Consider it a reward for your… somewhat decent behavior.”

\--

“If I’ve told your master once, I’ve told her a thousand times,” Calcelmo sighed. “These metals aren’t for… sale….” He paused, apparently noticing the armored mer behind her, and went pale. “Oh, I see. Ghorza sent the Thalmor with you to strong-arm me this time. Fine! Take whatever you need. I’m sure there’s more where that came from past the spiders.”

Rachel shot a nervous look at her guard, but he didn’t seem too bothered. “We’re not here for your artifacts, Calcelmo,” he said. “We just need whatever information you have regarding the Dwemer.”

“I see. Well, the museum is closed…. But I do have several copies of my books, if you’re interested. In buying,” he added quickly.

“A museum?”

Was it possible for Thalmor to look so excited? Rachel did her best to preserve the memory. Maybe it would be good for blackmail someday.

“I said it’s closed. But, if you’re really interested, you could do a favor for me, and I could tell the guards to let you inside.”

Kynril quickly regained his composure. “Name it, and we shall see.”

\--

“Why did you bring me along.”

Rachel tiptoed after her guard, occasionally making undignified noises and casting a magelight into a dark corner. Kill a big dangerous spider in Nchuand-Zel, Calcelmo said. Should be easy for a justiciar like yourself, he said. Of course he’d been talking to Kynril, who laughed at the challenge and practically dragged her off to the excavation site.

“I can’t leave you unsupervised,” he said, raising his hand to cast at another bug. “You wanted to know more about the Dwemer. Here we are. In their ancient halls.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go spider hunting!”

The spiders feared Kynril. And not because of his shiny bird armor and wrought moonstone sting. It was some kind of magic, some spell he cast on each spider in turn when they threatened to attack in groups, that repelled them. She could only imagine what waking nightmares they were being treated to. Maybe they saw a giant fire-breathing chicken? That would fit the armor.

Whatever they saw, they didn’t have to imagine it for long, because Kynril wasted no time driving his sword through their terrified spider heads.

He would stop occasionally to brush the webs off some shiny metal and hand it to her. He knelt again to pick another one up. This time it was a fairly large piece of machinery, nearly as big as a wolfhound’s middle. Thankfully it wasn’t nearly as heavy, she learned when he dumped it into her arms. But it still knocked the wind out of her and took a lot of effort to hang onto.

“Oh. Joy. More bronze!” Rachel wheezed.

“The Dwemer did not use ‘bronze’. Didn’t Ghorza teach you anything?”

Ghorza had taught her many things, including the not-so-subtle art of simply _bothering_ people, particularly aggravating tradesmen, by saying the right things at the right time.

“Yeah, but we only worked with _really good_ metal, like iron and steel.”

It hurt her deep inside to say those words, but apparently it bothered him _more_ , and the look on his face was worth it. There was nothing he could do about it either. When Kynril, excited by the prospect of new material on anything ancient, asked permission to take her on a walk across the keep, Ondolemar specifically ordered him to bring her back unharmed. The Nord rulers might be angry otherwise, if they forgot she was a Breton long enough to object to how the Thalmor treated her.

Not that it had stopped Kynril from dragging her into a spider-infested ruin, picking up every other cup or automaton part he found, and handing it off to her like she was some kind of pack animal.

It was time for a change in tactics. “Are you sure Calcelmo’s okay with us taking all this stuff?”

“If he didn’t have it collected sooner, he won’t miss it,” Kynril said. “Besides, now you have something to give Ghor-- What was that?”

Rachel thought it sounded like rocks falling on the floor, from somewhere high up, somewhere ahead. They were nearing the end of a tunnel, one cut straight through rock and into a great antechamber.

An antechamber with the biggest webs she had ever seen.

Kynril was already a few paces inside with a spell at the ready when she saw something descending from the ceiling. Some very big spider legs, with a very big spider close behind.

And the Thalmor was oblivious, walking straight ahead, back of his helmet turning left and right as he scanned the walls and floor. “I know I heard something….”

“Kyn!”

“What.”

“It’s up THERE!”

The elf looked up just in time to see the monster land and charge at him, front legs raised, fangs already dripping with venom. Kynril’s arm was outstretched, shaking, glove glowing a faint red as he backed into the tunnel, but this spider wasn’t afraid of him. It spat – Rachel shut her eyes, threw her arms out, and formed a ward, but she heard the mer yell in pain.

“Run. RUN!”

He didn’t need to say it twice; Rachel took off down the tunnel with Kynril stumbling and wheezing after her. The spider couldn’t follow, it was so narrow, and once they’d rounded a corner they were safely out of range of more venom.

She stopped to catch her breath. Kynril collapsed, heaving. Rachel retreated a few more paces, reluctant to listen to the retching but unwilling to wander too far, just in case they’d missed one of _those things_ on their first pass.

It was a few minutes before either of them could speak again.

“By the Ni…”

Kynril frowned at her, injuries, vomit, and giant spider forgotten.

“Eight. By the Eight.”

Kynril wasn’t convinced.

“You’re not going to tell Ondolemar, are you?”

\--

“It’s a common expression,” Rachel snarled. “I didn’t _mean_ anything by it!”

Ondolemar wasn’t convinced either. “As much as it’s in your interest to be guilty of heresy, for your own sake, mind your tongue. And your tone.”

“Everyone in Markarth says ‘By the Nine’, really. I don’t know even know who this ninth anything is. Honest.”

“Sure,” muttered Kynril.

“Sheor? I knew it. That one’s nothing but--”

Ondolemar cut her off. “That's enough. Go, and rest. I want a word with your bodyguard.”

She looked at Kynril. There was fear, for all of two seconds. And then his posture and face reflected the cold stoicism one would expect from the Thalmor.

“Thank you, sir,” she sighed. “Kynril? Here's your bronze.”

One eye twitched. Rachel dropped her knapsack into the elf’s unprepared arms and retreated to her bed, leaving Kynril all alone with his angry superior. She could still overhear parts of the conversation. The other Thalmor either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Ren’dar, for his part, made a show of being asleep.

Ondolemar was not amused that they’d returned bruised, exhausted, covered in web, and -- in Kynril’s case -- burned by venom.

“What were they thinking, sending me a half-trained justiciar? Does someone want you _dead_?”

And if Kynril answered, she couldn’t hear him.

“And what were _you_ thinking, wandering into Nchuand-Zel? I know for a fact Calcelmo hasn’t set up shop in there….”

The only things that scared the Thalmor, Rachel noted, were giant spiders (sometimes) and higher-ranking Thalmor. At least she wasn’t getting blamed. Too achy to sleep, she lay there listening to a storm of ‘incompetence’ and ‘apologies’ and ‘understood’.

There probably weren’t going to be more outings anytime soon. But at least Calcelmo had let her buy that set of books.

\--

“Calcelmo doesn’t seem to like the Thalmor much,” Rachel said as she ate that night. Vegetable soup, served in a wooden bowl this time, on Ondolemar’s orders. If it hadn’t been for the events of the last few days, she would have thought it was some kind of humiliation for throwing herself into more danger without asking first. But at least she didn’t need her gloves.

“The Thalmor are the saviors of Mer,” said Ondolemar, “but there will always be the naive and ungrateful. Calcelmo has been in Skyrim, trying to learn the secrets of long-dead mer for over two lifetimes of man. He does not remember the Oblivion Crisis, or the Great Anguish in Alinor. Nor does he appreciate our purpose.”

“The... Oblivion Crisis…?”

“You… what? Do you mean to tell me that nobody has ever told you of the year Oblivion broke loose? When endless Daedra came forth, spreading chaos, murdering innocent men, mer, and beasts all over Tamriel?”

“Nope. Nobody ever mentioned it.”

On any other Altmer, a slight furrow of the brow and snarl of the lips might mean something as mild as displeasure or irritation. But with the Thalmor, where everything was subdued to maintain an image of stoicism and ruthlessness, it might have been horror.

“Every Altmer child is told the story of the Crystal Tower. Why would your elders neglect such a thing?”

“I don't know, sir,” she said. And then came the wave of realization. “Well, all anyone talks about here is Ulfric Stormcloak and the Forsworn....”

“Of course....” Ondolemar's expression changed. She wasn't sure if it was something related more to boredom or pity. “The fleeting, regional concerns of men would be foremost in their memories.”

“If it’s okay to ask, what happened with the Crystal Tower?” Rachel asked carefully. “Do _you_ remember the Oblivion Crisis?”

“Of course I remember it. Just how young do you think I am?”

“Uh…. Fifty, maybe? Middle-aged?”

Ondolemar's expression became unreadable, and the room fell silent. Rachel could feel the stares of every Altmer present on the back of her head. But not Ren’dar. The Khajiit broke into raucous laughter for a good five minutes, and then randomly fell back into giggles until he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

“But look on the bright side,” Ren’dar said the next morning. “Now that your master knows you have deplorable manners, you won’t get dragged to any Thalmor parties and slain by a more important Altmer.”

“How was I supposed to know elves hate being called young?” Rachel asked her plate of bread and salted beef, and sank lower into her chair. The embarrassment was still fresh. “Or compared to humans….”

“You have been here for how long now?”

“Only a few days. And he’s not… my….”

“Ondolemar isn’t your master?” he hissed. The change in tone startled Rachel. She looked up -- the Khajiit’s face seemed slightly larger, eyes wider, and his ears had gone flat. “He’s _just_ your jailer? What do you think is going to happen to you, when you finally admit your heresy and give yourself over to the Thalmor?”

She hasn’t thought of that. She had been a lot more worried about stalling for time, waiting for news about the guards and Eltrys, and hoping that soon things would quiet down and her involvement with the man would be forgotten. All of that, while treading carefully, constantly unsure if it was safer to let Ondolemar think she _might_ be a heretic so she didn’t get deemed harmless and thrown back out to the guards and their Forsworn conspiracy, or to deny it all until she knew for a fact Ondolemar would keep his word on not torturing her. There had been no time or room to think about what would happen next. And all of that was unpleasant to dwell on. That was why she had books.

“Trust Ren’dar, you can’t just go back to being some orc’s apprentice,” he finally said, looking not at her, but through her. As if something was playing out on the carved stone wall. “Even if the guards didn’t have it in for you. Nobody ever gets arrested by the Thalmor and then goes free with a slap on the wrist.”

“Okay…? What’ll happen to me?”

“Depends on where they think you’re useful.” Ren’dar got up from the table. “And, I don’t want to scare you, but I don’t think the Thalmor have room for pets.” He lowered his voice and grinned. “Not even a magical guard dog. Now if you’ll excuse me, my ‘use’ calls.”

“Wait!”

“Yes…?”

She looked back at the room. The only Altmer left in the room were sleeping off their night shift or reading by the fire. Even Kynril was out.

“If you were me,” she asked in a whisper, “what would you do?”

“About what?”

“About all of this.”

He bit his lip, showing long fangs. “Run for my life, instead of sitting here asking what to do. Go to some other hold, where the Silver-Bloods do not matter and neither do the Thalmor.”

“The Silver-Bloods? What have they got to do with this?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said, grinning wider. “And you will not get very far by asking anyone. But seriously,” Ren’dar went on, expression suddenly solemn again. “You are not me. Even Ren’dar all those years ago was not the same as you. Ren’dar also did not have a choice. You do. Your choices are just not… very appealing.”

He left without saying another word.

She considered her options.

Maybe running out of Markarth and grabbing a carriage wasn’t such a bad idea. Until she remembered she didn’t have any idea where to go, and that the Thalmor were keeping a close watch on the few assets she had. She also wouldn’t be able to do that without leaving the keep and possibly attracting the attention of at least a dozen guards.

The other option was following up on the one clue Ren’dar had left her with for the day.

The Silver-Bloods were the wealthiest family in the Reach. Everyone knew that. They controlled all the mines, owned that big inn near the city gates, and paid all the miners and farmers. They were even fairly influential in the keep.

What could they possibly have to do with the guards trying to cover up the obvious Forsworn in the city?

… No. No, that was too much. The guards worked for Markarth. The guards worked for the Empire. And the Empire was keeping the city safe from the Forsworn. No, wait, that wasn’t right. Those guards also denied the Forsworn that were definitely there.

It was too much to think about.

She looked back at her bed in the far corner of the room. She had all that material from Calcelmo to get through. It would be safer, and easier, to spend the day with that.

And yet…. She found herself unwilling to move from her chair. Even for the promise of books. Everything else was growing too heavy in her mind.

What was safe anymore? She hadn’t been with the Thalmor that long but she was starting to lose track of how many days she had left before Ondolemar was forced to release her.

And until the Thalmor decided to release her, the Thalmor were the only ones with any power over her, right? To Oblivion with the Nords.

The others were snoring now. She tiptoed to the door and poked her head out. Nobody was guarding the room. Nobody really needed to in a safe, Imperial hold like this.

Ondolemar had told her not to run off without permission. She wasn’t sure what would happen next, when someone inevitably noticed her absence, but the more time she spent with Ondolemar, the more he failed to match the Thalmor’s reputation for swift and cruel Aldmeri justice. So she slipped out of the room and walked down the hall, as if it were once again her business to be there.

Nobody stopped her. But she thought she saw a couple of the Markarth guards turn their heads to look at her. Whatever they were thinking didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Let them think what they want. Maybe they think you’re free early.

She didn’t pause again until she’d reached the gigantic main hall, where Ondolemar and no fewer than two guards were _always_ found during the day. As commander of the Thalmor he had as much reason to be there as the housecarl and steward. And more, if one counted his influence on Markarth’s Imperial business.

Finally, after a tense moment of waiting and listening, she heard it. Ondolemar talking to someone -- no, the Jarl himself.

“Yes, I understand your concern about Ogmund. But whatever you’re hearing about that old skald and his songs, they’re just that. An old man singing the old legends of our people. Nothing more.”

“Of course. The people of Skyrim place high esteem on their bards and legends.”

That was Ondolemar’s voice. Not too close, probably just in front of the throne. Which meant that he and his guards were distracted, and that was her chance. It wasn’t as if she had to pass in front of the Jarl’s sight to get to Ghorza’s quarters.

“I don’t think I need to remind you that Markarth has a history of Stormcloak sentiment,” continued Ondolemar as Rachel tiptoed along the wall. “Or that these rebels also value the…”

She noticed, almost too late, that one of the justiciars _was_ out of the throne room, and if they turned their head in the wrong direction then that was it.

But no, thank the gods, it didn’t happen, and she slipped into the large smithing workshop, where the other apprentice and Markarth’s two best smiths slept. Where she had slept, not even a week ago.

Her bedroll was still there. She had never been so happy to see it.

Ghorza was also there, clearly getting ready to leave for her day of work at the open forge.

Rachel suddenly remembered what Ondolemar had told her on the night of her arrest. That not only the Jarl, but Ghorza, would be informed of her suspected heresy. And Ghorza, if she remembered right, had been a staunch legionnaire. She braced herself for an Imperial lecture.

Ghorza seemed pleased to see her, to her relief. “You’re finally free? I knew it couldn’t be true.”

Oh. Oh, it was definitely a misunderstanding.

Or at least half of one. She still disliked Talos, and after _The Real Barenziah_ , his chances of growing on her were nonexistent. Not that that could be known to others. Yet.

“Do you have any idea what kind of backup we had?” Ghorza asked. “What were you thinking, getting yourself arrested like that?”

“I’m going to die and this Thalmor is going to kill me?” Yes, that seemed to summarize it well enough.

Ghorza smiled. “Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t. You have a lot to catch up on. Where are your gloves?”

“Um, actually… I’m not exactly free yet,” Rachel whispered, and her boss’ relief quickly turned back into a very worried frown. “Can we talk? In private? It’s important. I need help.”

The orc considered for a moment, then shut the door. “Tacitus can wait, anyway. But what are you _doing_?”

Rachel thought carefully. What could she say, that wouldn’t draw suspicion to her real concern? That wouldn’t drag Ghorza and the others into her own problem if they were discovered?

“Something happened in Markarth right before I got arrested,” she said slowly. “Someone tried to kill a woman right in front of the inn, but the guards killed him first. Everyone was talking about it, but since I got arrested I haven’t had any news.”

“That’s it?” Ghorza asked.

“I can’t just ask the Thalmor to tell me these things,” Rachel went on, dancing around her fear that the Thalmor would tell her whatever scared her into a confession. “And being trapped in here is killing me. It's like I've been there for a year already.”

“Hm. Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“So… what happened after the attack?”

“Well, let’s see…. That woman, Margaret, she's too scared to walk around town anymore. The dead man, Weylin? I didn’t know him, but that one had just got out of Cidhna Mine. No idea what they did with the body.”

Something clicked. “He worked there? Then was he a prisoner, or did he get in because he was hired?”

“The only people who go in there to mine are the hold’s criminal scum. Wouldn’t recommend it for you, by the way.”

Everything Ondolemar had told her about illegal arrests started to come back to her. What _had_ Weylin been in there for? Why? And why would the guards use the mines to hide people...? Something else didn’t make sense, though.

“I’ve never seen any guards go in or out of there.”

“Oh, they have to, sometimes. But it’s the Silver-Bloods who own and staff the place. They don’t do it themselves. They hire mercenaries to watch the prisoners.”

That was weird, she thought. She used to hear stories of dungeons in other holds, where the prison belonged to the hold, the Jarl had direct supervision, and the jail was watched over by hold guards. Sometimes elemental beasts. But never someone else’s mercs.

“Is there another prison here, then?” she asked. “In the keep?”

“No. Not even that war room. Did you ever see those cuffs in there, fixed to the wall? Had to install them myself after the little incident twenty-five years ago. Hm. I hope they didn’t use that on you. It would be hell on your tiny human shoulders.”

“Nah, they didn't do that. Actually, their commander isn’t so bad. At least, not to me.”

“Don’t let your guard down,” Ghorza warned her. “You’ve never seen the Thalmor on a bad day. Or what happens to the unlucky when they have more power than this. Which is why you need to leave, and soon, and I need to get going.”

Ghorza made to cross the room, but there was a knock on the door.

Without thinking, Rachel slid into her old bed roll and pulled the edge down over her face. And then she waited. She regretted it immediately; it was far too hot to lie there in normal clothes, and the inside smelled like sweat, soap, and unfinished leather. But it was too late to worry about that. The door opened.

 _Oh Molag Balls,_ she thought, as she heard Ondolemar’s voice again. _No. Not here. Not like this!_

“Good morning, Ghorza.” Thalmor said normal things like that? Really? “Is that your apprentice over there? What are they doing in bed at this hour?”

“Hiding from responsibility, as usual.”

“Ah. Yes, I’ve seen this problem before…. Allow me.”

Rachel waited, screaming to herself.

“Tacitus!” the Thalmor barked.

There was a startled yelp somewhere outside the room.

“Well, I wasn't lying,” said Ghorza.

The next few seconds happened all at once. There was the familiar clip of boots on dwarven stonework, growing louder and closer too fast, as the Thalmor marched across the room. He forced the bed roll open, then yanked her out and onto her feet by her collar. She couldn’t look at Ondolemar. Tacitus was standing in the doorway, watching the scene in shock. Ghorza, however, looked impassive.

“Ghorza, you know the penalty for harboring escaped prisoners.”

Rachel hadn’t heard him sound so serious. And he wasn’t letting go of her.

“O-Ondolemar? Sir?” she added quickly as he turned his gaze on her. “Ghorza didn't hide me and Tacitus wasn’t even here. You can’t blame them. Please--”

“ _Silence_ , Breton!”

Her knees stopped working about then. Ondolemar didn’t seem to care, and held her weight as if it were only a minor burden. He addressed the orc.

“Ghorza, this is the only warning I will give you. If I find this again, whoever the prisoner is, I will be forced to act.”

“Of course, Ondolemar. Tacitus!” Ghorza turned to the man cowering next to her. “Get moving. We have work to do.”

Ondolemar waited until they had left before speaking again.

“Perhaps, I was too hasty to place all the blame on Kynril for yesterday’s excitement,” he said, for the first time looking down at her like an angry hawk.

“Eep.”

“Care to explain?”

“Well…. Uh…. I… wasn’t trying to run away,” she started hopefully. “Really. I was going to go back after. Really!”

“What could be so important that you’d creep back here, endangering not only yourself and your chance at clemency, but your master and fellow apprentice?”

“You’re right, that was stupid,” she said to his arm. “It won't happen again.”

“That’s not good enough,” he said, finally releasing her shirt. And since she’d forgotten about supporting her own weight again, she fell, and landed with some pain. “We’re going back to have a nice, long talk. But yes, you’re right. It won’t happen again.”

\--

Ondolemar had been completely serious. As soon as they returned to the barracks, he assigned two of the more serious looking justiciars to guard the doors. Then her hands were bound, and she was made to sit at the table to explain everything: why she’d left the room earlier, how she’d done it, and how she’d reached the smiths’ quarters without being caught.

It was the most difficult talk she’d ever had with the mer, constantly tripping over her points, rethinking her words, trying very hard not to implicate Ren’dar for his part in encouraging her. He seemed to catch on, whether she mentioned him or not, and said he would deal with him later.

She didn’t like the sound of that and tried to plead that the Khajiit was the only one, except for maybe one of the Thalmor, who talked to her like she was a person. Which was where part of the problem was, said Ondolemar. The Khajiit had forgotten her place; even the fallen mer were not to lower themselves to the affairs of humans, especially not prisoners. And Kynril would be warned as well.

But there was one thing Ondolemar seemed pleased with. And to her confusion, it was the same reason he was angry at her. She had slipped out of the room without permission to seek information on her own.

“Well? What do you know now?”

Rachel looked carefully at his face, trying to gauge his thoughts. “The Silver-Bloods own Cidhna Mine,” she whispered. “That’s where we get a lot of our silver, of course…. And it’s all mined by prisoners. That’s where that man came from, the one who tried to kill that lady in the market. That… Forsworn. The Forsworn that the guards say don’t exist here. The guards who are giving Eltrys a hard time….”

Ondolemar smiled as it dawned on her.

“The same guards who don’t want people knowing about the Forsworn,” she whispered. “They’re locking people who ask questions... in a place owned by…”

Rachel paused.

Nope. Still too much. It made sense, but it was too much. She needed another book. Or a strong drink.

“Good job, human. That only took you five days. Six, if you count the day of your arrest.”

“You don’t mean… the Silver-Bloods bought off the guards?” Rachel hissed in horror. “And the Forsworn are all coming from… there? The mines?”

“I suspect as much. And that the Silver-Bloods have joined the rebels,” Ondolemar said. “Think about it. A Talos-worshipping clan that seized power over all of Markarth, taking everything but the throne after Ulfric Stormcloak captured the city from rebelling Reachmen at the end of the Great War. All their enemies, the Forsworn, almost all Bretons like yourself, executed or locked up in the mines. Occasionally released to terrify the unwitting populace and remind them why they ‘need’ full Nord control over the Reach. And they would have the throne itself, if not for the Empire.”

Yep. She was definitely going to ask to try the Alto wine later.

“Fortunate, isn’t it? That the Empire convinced Ulfric Stormcloak to hand the city over after he demanded free worship of Talos here, and that the Empire conceded to let the Thalmor in to keep a watchful eye over the vengeful and bloodthirsty Nords, lest they violate the White-Gold Concordat again.”

It was a lot to take in. It was still too much.

Her wrists itched, just beneath her bindings. “Can you take these off, please?”

“No.”

And that was the end of that matter.

“So… uh… speaking of secret Talos worship….”

Ondolemar raised his eyebrows. “You understand, now. Decided to sign your confession now, have you?”

The more she learned about Markarth, the more appealing it was. But she didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right to have all this information coming from the Thalmor trying to pull a confession out of her. Even if Ghorza had helped her connect it.

She decided to steer the conversation far away from that. She still had some time left, right? This was her fifth day?

“Actually, I overheard you talking to the Jarl about the skald at the inn.”

She wished he would stop smiling. Any other time, from anyone else, it might have been nice to see. But she was tied up at a table with a Thalmor. A Thalmor who had spent the last few days telling her that admitting to being a heretic was the best way to not die.

“You’re awfully inquisitive, aren’t you? I like that.”

Rachel remembered what Ren’dar had said earlier, about Thalmor finding uses for their prisoners.

“I don’t know if I’d say that, sir.”

“Oh?”

She chewed on her lip. She didn’t like where this was going. But if the Khajiit was right, she didn’t have any choice about liking it.

“Well, I wouldn't have said that before, but I guess now that you mention it....”

However, he frowned and shook his head. “No… that’s not worth the risk. It can wait.”

Relieved as she was to hear that, there was something bothering her. Chewing on the dark corners of her mind. Some dread refused to make itself known.


	7. Chapter 7

Ren’dar did not return that night. The sixth day crawled on, with no sign of the Khajiit, no word from him. Ondolemar’s face and mood were the same as ever. Businesslike. Sober. Rarely, pleased, at gods knew what. But he was busier than ever, and so were his justiciars, and she avoided talking to him.

Kynril was the exception. The elf had been given leave, for the next few days, and while he seemed glad to take it, he was restless. After watching him pace for several minutes, absently twisting his white hair around his fingers, occasionally watching the door, Rachel realized that even though he’d been given a break he was just as confined to the room as she was.

“He seems to think I helped you with your little escape yesterday,” he said when she went to speak to him, under the pretense of offering him one of her books. “... _Dwarves_? Really?”

“Oh come on, you’re the one who made me pick up all that scrap. It’s really enlightening.”

“Perhaps, for a human such as yourself.” He accepted the book anyway. “Now what are you really here for?”

“Where is Ren’dar?”

“Oh, that’s all? Unlike you, Ren’dar isn’t an indoor pet.”

“I’m not a--”

“The Khajiit disappears all the time. It’s never anything to worry about. He always come back in one piece.

“If I were you,” he said, turning a page in his book, “I’d worry about yourself. After tonight? You have two more days. What are you going to do? … And Stendarr help me, quit standing over my shoulder and sit like a normal person. … No, not on the floor.”

Rachel took the chair next to him. It was uncomfortable new territory. Until this point she had only been allowed her bed and whatever chair she occupied for interrogation. Or dinner, but only after the Thalmor were done eating.

It wasn’t hard to imagine some other justiciar walking in and taking offense because her human butt was out of its designated human butt space.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do,” she said. “The smart thing to do would be just taking Ondolemar’s deal, except all my reasons came from him. And Ghorza, I guess. And Ren’dar. And Ondolemar said I don’t _have_ to die if I confess to worshipping Talos, but….”

“So after being presented the evidence, putting it together for yourself, and knowing what awaits you in the mines... you doubt the mercy of the Thalmor?”

The last part of Kynril’s question didn’t make sense. Those words just didn’t go together.

“That is understandable,” he whispered, shifting in his chair and propping himself on his elbow to lean closer. “But honestly, Breton. What more do you need? What is it going to take to convince you that the guard is a danger to you? Some kind of secret letter in their pockets, plotting your demise?”

“No, no, that’s silly,” she said. It would uncomplicate everything though.

\--

A sudden frenzy of activity roused her from sleep in the middle of the night. Quick footsteps -- Thalmor boots on stone. Wheezing. One of the Altmer, angry, probably cursing. A sudden light, through her barely cracked eyelids, and painful sounds like cracking bones.

She sat up in a panic, only to see Ondolemar, in a robe hastily thrown over a gown, bent over a stone bed next to her, hands glowing gold, pressed on something wet and furry.

It was Ren’dar. Ren’dar, moaning in pain, barely whispering in a language that apparently only Ondolemar could understand. The elf’s face grew darker as he worked.

She knew better than to start yelling questions. Questions like what the hell happened, why was he in rags, why was he matted with blood, what was going on, and was he going to--

“Where did you find him,” Ondolemar demanded, without looking up from his work.

Rachel had nearly forgotten to notice the two justiciars standing next to him, or that their armor too was bloody.

“In the city, near the Hall of the Dead. There was a trail of blood, but there was no time to follow without losing the Khajiit.”

“Were you followed?”

“No.”

Ren’dar’s breathing grew stable and deep, but the whispering continued.

“Be silent now,” said Ondolemar. “You have done your duty, and will not speak of it again until morning.”

Rachel laid back down as quietly as possible, still worried for him, and praying to whatever gods would listen that the Thalmor would not bother _her_ until morning either. Whether it was a gift of the gods or merely disinterest from the Thalmor, they eventually left Ren’dar’s bedside without speaking a word to her. The Khajiit snored, as if he had never been wounded.

Sleep was full of nightmares. So many stone steps, the stairs of Markarth reaching higher than ever, and guards. Angry guards and a great daedric beast chasing her throughout the city, navigating the steps as if they were nothing, while it was all she could do to keep her footing and not plummet into the sea of jagged rocks and metal below….

Ren’dar was still fast asleep and dirty with his own dried blood when she woke up.

She glanced around the room, feeling more vulnerable than ever, wishing desperately that someone would wake up or a night patrol would return.

It felt like hours before one did.

The seventh day had begun. Painfully.


	8. Chapter 8

For the first time, Rachel, Kynril, and Ren’dar were alone. If having a sleeping Thalmor nearby and two guards outside the room counted as alone. Ren’dar was awake, but reluctant to move much or get out of bed.

Kynril was busy washing blood and dirt out of his fur with a damp cloth. Only because he was off duty and somebody had to get rid of that filth, of course. And because the Khajiit had performed his own duty admirably. Kynril could lower himself to bathe him this once. But next time, Ren’dar would be out of luck. Really.

Rachel watched with some morbid fascination. Ren’dar’s wounds had been closed quickly and skillfully enough to prevent scarring, but he was still pale, and the best restoration magic couldn’t regrow lost fur. And his fur was riddled with burn marks and streaks of bare skin.

“You are probably wondering what happened,” he said, finally. His voice was weak; they had to lean closer to hear him. “Maybe I can tell you. Ondolemar already knows.”

“Is that even allowed?” Rachel asked.

“Maybe.” He was grinning again. “Besides, Ren’dar thinks it’s time you heard something without him present. Ren’dar’s time might be over.”

She looked at Kynril, anxious again.

“Don’t be stupid,” the elf snapped at him. “Your injuries have been treated and you’ve survived the night. You’re not dying on us now.”

“Ren’dar is a wanted cat now,” he sighed. “Do you want the explanation, or not?”

“Fine. Speak.”

“Okay…. But I’m warning you, you’re not going to like it. Human, sit down. There is bad news.”

She looked behind her. It would be a bit hard for her to hear from her bed. And the floor would be a bit low and uncomfortable.

Rachel crossed the room and picked up one of the wooden chairs from by the tables, as Kynril had done. If he could do that, maybe she could too. The other Thalmor were too asleep or absent to care.

The chair was surprisingly _light_. Lighter than she expected even a wooden chair to be. She carried it back to Ren’dar’s bedside and set it back down harder than she meant, with a noisy thud that was sure to wake the sleeping mer. Kynril was staring. She tried to ignore that, and sat down as Ren’dar had asked.

He looked at her for a moment.

“The human called Eltrys is dead. I am sorry.”

Rachel wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it hadn’t been _that_. She had to steady herself on the edges of the chair.

“Hold on. Isn’t that the name of the man who asked her to meet him at the shrine?” Kynril asked.

“Yes,” Ren’dar said. “The same man the guards were following. Threatening. All because he wanted to know more about the Forsworn.”

“Nobody ever told me the guards…,” Rachel started. “Murders? I thought…. I thought they just locked people up.”

“Apparently not. Ren’dar witnessed the murder. They cornered the poor man. Killed him themselves. Ren’dar was arrested later.”

“What? Why?”

“Murder. Don’t look at me like that. Of course Ren’dar didn’t kill anyone. That would make Ondolemar’s job too difficult.”

“So they killed Eltrys… and pinned it on you.”

“Actually, they couldn’t,” Ren’dar said. “They didn’t catch me close enough, and then they had no evidence. Hard to pin a fresh body on a Khajiit far away from the crime.”

“So… who did they say you murdered.”

“No idea. But Ren’dar is certain he went to jail for seeing the murder.”

“Just you? Was anyone else around?”

“No. It was night.”

“Cidhna Mine is supposed to be inescapable,” Kynril said, frowning at him. “How did you get out?”

Ren’dar laughed. Then coughed, and made a face. Then laughed a bit more. “Apparently, Cidhna Mine is only for thieves, political enemies, and murderers. It’s not hard to leave if one is a skilled pickpocket and the guards are full of themselves.”

“You got the key off the mercenaries?”

“Of course not. They never set foot in the mine itself. I got one key off a big orc, and then stole into a private tunnel he was guarding, where there was some human calling himself the King of the Forsworn. He had escape plans. And another key. He never saw Ren’dar take them and open his secret door and leave. Actually,” he added, “Ren’dar is surprised the man did not take the prisoners and break out sooner. That would have been so easy.”

“So there’s a secret way out of the mines,” Kynril prompted him. “And nobody caught you leaving. This doesn’t explain the blood.”

Ren’dar’s ears flattened. “What if I told you there were still functioning dwemer machines in secret places in the city, and the tunnel between the city and the mines is full of them.”

Kynril’s eyes widened. “Where did you say this tunnel came out?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention the big hairy spiders.”

That shut Kynril up.

“The tunnel comes out near the Nords’ Hall of the Dead,” Ren’dar finished. “Ren’dar crawled there, woke up here. And now there is probably a bounty on Ren’dar’s head. If not for murder, for jailbreak. Not very convenient for Ondolemar.”

“I thought Ondolemar could get you off the hook for that?” Rachel asked. “He told me that the Dominion has the first right to--”

“That only applies to prisoners of the Thalmor,” Kynril said. “Gods, you don’t know anything about how the Thalmor operate.”

“Of course not, you’re all scary and all anyone knows is people disappear forever when you show up.”

“Yes, well. Let me put it this way. The Thalmor operate only under the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, with the cooperation of local rulers and to… limited extent. As you know, for example, Ondolemar cannot act further on your suspected heresy without the Jarl’s permission or undeniable evidence. But things happen, and justiciars sometimes get carried away…. And it can be difficult to protect justiciars who break Imperial laws.”

“But you didn’t do _anything_ ,” Rachel said, looking back at Ren’dar.

“Well…. Technically, I broke out of jail. At this point, why I was there hardly matters. Ren’dar cannot stay in Markarth much longer. Human, you should be thinking hard on your options.”

“My options?”

“Ondolemar needs your answer tomorrow night,” Kynril reminded her. “You _are_ going to sign that confession, right?”

She didn’t answer. It was still too much.

“What is there to think about?” he whispered, as if he’d read her mind. “The guards are murderers. They know you were involved with the man they just killed. Ren’dar nearly _died_ and you still want to--”

“Look, I’m really sorry about all this! But I still don’t even--”

“Enough!” Ren’dar hissed. “Both of you presume too much. Human girl or not, this was my duty.”

Rachel turned her head away out of embarrassment.

“But,” he went on, pulling her closer by her shoulder and whispering in her ear, “you are right. You still don’t know how much the guards care about you. We all know you don’t trust the Thalmor. So I left you something, if you are feeling brave…. Something you can see with your own eyes, instead of hearing from one of us. I had to hide it, before I was captured. Consider it Ren’dar’s apology, for sending Ondolemar after you on that first night.”

\--

The plan would have to wait. It would look too suspicious if anything unusual happened that night. The rest of that day, however, was uneventful.

Ondolemar returned for a late dinner, and to inform her of Eltrys’ death, but soon realized that she knew everything, all thanks to the Khajiit. But he could not say what would happen to him, other than that he too was now confined to the makeshift barracks. Ren’dar was still exhausted and uneager to step outside again, and did not argue.

He did not press the issue of the bargain. Rachel brought it up instead.

“I have to know something,” she said, turning her cup of water around in her hands. “Why? Why are you being so…. Why are you helping me?”

“Help is too simple a term. You are suspected of committing heresy, but marked by the guard. I have explained your options, and that it is in my power to be lenient,” he said, as if she’d asked him to explain where rain come from.

“But _why_? Why are you offering me that?”

Ondolemar raised an eyebrow. “You are exceedingly lucky Markarth is my station. I have my reasons.”

She remembered, again, what Ren’dar had told her about the Thalmor having a purpose for everyone they kept alive. If that was true, then it was clear. Ondolemar, for all his ‘mercy’, had something bigger planned.

Maybe it was best not to question that, said a small voice in her mind. The fact that she was being offered help…. Perhaps that was enough. It wasn’t as if she had an option to refuse whatever terms the Thalmor imposed on her later.

If this really kept her out of the hands of the guards, and alive, she was grateful. A strange, bitter sort of grateful that came from having only two realistic and unpleasant options in reach.

Jail, or the Thalmor.

Cidhna Mine, or likely a life of service to the Dominion.

Death by silver or Nord steel, or….

“You’re right, that’s not for me to know,” she sighed. “I think… tomorrow… I will accept your offer. I just have one question about that.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“You mentioned a Lady Elenwen you have to tell about all this? What will happen to me when she finds out?”

“The First Emissary will most likely not see you as a threat,” Ondolemar said. “And I believe she can be persuaded that your ‘crime’ was mild enough to forgive, as long as you understand your place in the Aldmeri Dominion.”

“... In the Dominion, sir?”

“I thought you understood? Or do I need to explain?”

She said nothing, and he explained anyway.

“If you are found guilty, or if you confess, your Jarl is obligated to surrender you to the Aldmeri Dominion. You are not simply protected from the laws of Skyrim, as they would have applied to your past crimes. You may no longer be _protected_ _by_ the laws of Skyrim, and by extension, the Empire. To that end, you would no longer be a citizen of Markarth, or Skyrim. You would belong to the Dominion. To Alinor, to be specific.”

So this was what Ren'dar had meant, when he had warned her it would be impossible to return to her old life.

But it was still settled, in her mind. As soon as she had whatever Ren’dar wanted to show her, she would accept.

Even if she never made it that far… she would accept, but be less happy about it.


	9. Chapter 9

The afternoon of the eighth day arrived. Rachel waited anxiously on her bed for the signal, fingers trembling slightly as she pretended to be absorbed in the final volume of Calcelmo’s work on the Dwemer.

Kynril looked up from his seat occasionally to glare at her. Don’t do this, his eyes said. Don’t do it, you idiot. You’re going to get yourself into deeper trouble and it won’t be worth it.

She ignored him. Ren’dar had already planned everything.

Finally, the Khajiit started to groan. Rachel glanced at him. Ren’dar was pressing a hand over his abdomen, clenching his eyes.

“Ow…. Ah, S’rendarr! It hurts….”

One of the off-duty Thalmor turned his head to look. Ren’dar had rolled onto his side, with both arms wrapped around his body and his tail curled between his legs.

Rachel met Kynril’s eyes again, and looked from him to the Khajiit and back, silently pleading for him to get off his robed ass and get over there and take over, before any of the other elves did and made the rest of the ruse hard.

He got the message and walked to Ren’dar’s bedside, feigning Altmeri concern. Which was apparently supposed to look like disdain for the pained yowling.

“What is it, Khajiit?” he said, turning Ren’dar over. “Where does it hurt?”

“I’m dying…!”

Kynril rolled his eyes. Then he turned to the other Thalmor. “What are you two waiting for?! Find Ondolemar! Get a healer!”

One of them argued something, probably in Altmeris, but Ren’dar cried louder and held onto Kynril’s robes. The Thalmor hurried from the room, leaving them very alone.

“In the drawer, quickly,” Ren’dar muttered.

Rachel was already looking through the stand by his bed. She pulled out a bottle of silvery potion, exactly like Ren’dar had described earlier.

“Outside Nchuand-Zel, as soon as you can, _please_ ,” she whispered to Kynril, and took a sip of the bitter potion before he could object.

Her body disappeared from everyone’s sight, including hers. Mildly disoriented, she left the room as quickly as possible, hoping that the guards wouldn’t hear her over the Khajiit’s howling.

She felt light and silent as she darted around the keep. As if her old boots were padded. Probably the invisibility potion, she thought. But she wasn’t sure how that would muffle her footsteps too.

She made her way to the outside of the ruins carefully, pausing now and then to drink more potion, feeling like she would choke and retch every time. That was how she made her way past the keep guards, the agitated Thalmor justiciars, Ondolemar at one nerve-wracking moment, and finally, Calcelmo.

Then, she found a place out of sight, and waited. It felt like an eternity.

Kynril arrived later, still robed, frowning down at her as if she were some unruly animal.

“Ondolemar is furious,” he said. “I am here because he thinks you trust me, and as soon as you’re done with Ren’dar’s business, we’re going back. No detours,” he added. “We're both risking too much as it is.”

Rachel nodded. “It’s just a quick walk into the Hall of the Dead.”

“Why did you want me to come here?”

“It’s close by, the priest would get nervous if he saw me lurking around this long since I’m not supposed to be here, and… well, you’re Thalmor. So if the guards have a problem….”

“Fair enough.”

And so they backtracked for a minute before turning to approach the Hall of the Dead. The priest, Brother Verulus, stood outside.

“Um, if it’s about the Hall of the Dead, you can’t go in,” he said, eyeing Kynril with suspicion. “By order of the Jarl.”

“Is something wrong?” Kynril asked.

“I can’t talk about it.”

“We’re going to talk about it,” the Altmer said, straightening up to full height. “This woman has lost someone and has come to visit him one last time.”

Brother Verulus turned his head to gaze at Rachel, visibly distressed. “You brought the _Thalmor_ to strong-arm me?”

Why did everyone ask that?

“You’re half right,” Kynril said. “Think of this as one last favor, to someone Arkay might be more relevant to in the next few days.”

Rachel shuffled a bit where she stood, and hoped it was a bluff. Surely Ondolemar wasn’t that angry. Right?

“Oh… Oh my. I see. I don’t have much choice, do I?”

He unlocked the doors.

“If I may ask, child of Arkay, who are you visiting?”

“A man named Eltrys. An acquaintance,” she added. Her insides twisted with guilt. Eltrys had a wife. Had she been denied access to the hall?

“I see. It’s a shame, what happened to him.”

Kynril tried to hurry her inside, but Rachel spotted a brief opportunity. “Brother Verulus? What happened to Eltrys? I never found out.”

Verulus paled a bit. “It was an accident at the smelter. Horrible way to go…. But they believe it was quick, and he did not suffer for long.”

“Come along, Breton,” Kynril said, pulling her through the doors. “We won’t be long, Verulus.”

The doors closed behind them.

“That was definitely a lie,” Rachel whispered. “He wasn't working there. Not anymore. Bastards. Arresting Ren’dar when they made Eltrys look like an accident…!”

“I’ll inform Ondolemar when we get back,” said Kyn, already moving down the narrow hall cut into the mountain.

There were coffins on either side of them, each in a resting place carved in rocky walls. Sometimes they were two high, to save space. Then there were the more elaborate spaces dedicated to a wealthier clan here and there, usually with a table featuring a shrine to a particular god, with books, jewels, weaponry, and other relics surrounding it.

“Eltrys wasn’t a rich man.” Rachel wasn’t sure why she whispered, or stayed so close to the Thalmor. There were no signs of draugr, after all. “He used to be a metalworker, and I’m pretty sure he lived in the warrens. Even with his wife’s job, I don’t think they could afford much….”

But they found his resting place eventually, in one of the farthest reaches of the catacombs. The coffin was plain, undecorated. They searched around the outside and found nothing but wilted mountain flowers. Kynril sighed and opened it while Rachel looked away.

“That clever little beast,” he breathed.

Rachel heard a brief rustling of paper, and the coffin closed again. Kynril tapped her on the shoulder and handed her two things: a small journal bound in leather, and a few sheets of something written in fine ink on high-quality paper. She read them by magelight, while her stomach fluttered from nerves.

“‘Warrant for the arrest of...’ Oh no. That’s _my_ name....”

Kynril peered over her shoulder. “When in hells did you steal five pounds of silver from the mine?”

“That’s not all. Vandalism, disturbing the peace, conspiracy…. Why? What is this?”

She felt her eyes start to water again. That was it. It was the Aldmeri Dominion for her.

Kynril gently took the papers out of her hands and flipped through them. “It’s real. Look at this, Rachel. That’s the Jarl’s signature.”

“Everyone was right, and I didn’t want to believe it….”

“Don’t start snivelling over that,” Kynril said. “Anyone in your position would be skeptical at best.” He folded the papers and slipped them into a pocket somewhere inside his robe. “Now what does that journal say?”

She opened it, and read the first page. “By the… Eight. It’s Thonar Silver-Blood’s.”

“So, Ondolemar was right all along…. This is wonderful!”

“Wonderful?” Rachel repeated.

“That journal is evidence. Let me see…. Yes, here we are. ‘No one knows about our little arrangement. Not even the Forsworn. I wonder how they would react knowing their King in Rags was one of my most important assets?’”

“All that proves is the Forsworn are being controlled by the Silver-Bloods.”

“Yes, but it’s the best lead we’ve had in years,” His tone was, perhaps, the closest thing to happiness she'd heard from any of them. Even Ondolemar, in his occasional displays of satisfaction, was more subdued than this. “Oh, he will rue the day he decided to keep a journal of his crimes. I’ll have to put in a good word for the Khajiit. And you. I suppose you've earned it. Knowing Ondolemar, I think he'll be willing to forgive your little escape this time.”

Kynril pocketed the journal, too. “And speaking of that, we need to go back now. It’s been long enough, and I think you have things to sign.”

Somewhere nearby, a door creaked open and slammed shut again. Kynril stepped between her and the noise, and his hands lit up with some magic again. She heard heavy footsteps ahead.

A great Nord in steel armor, with a warhammer on his back, walked into the glow of the magelight.

“Here to visit your honored dead?” Kynril straightened up again.

“Something like that.”

The Nord reached for the warhammer. Rachel stepped back, wondering how a ward would hold out against a weapon like _that_ , wishing that the elf had brought his shield this time, or at least his sword….

“You are interfering with official Thalmor business!” Kynril warned, raising his hands. “Leave!”

“I don’t see any Thalmor here. All I see is a nosy little elf and…”

Before he could finish, he was struck in the middle by a red light. The Nord staggered, looked back up at Kynril, then dropped his weapon and shrank, cowering next to one of the tombs.

“Who sent you?” Kynril advanced on the man, hands still outstretched. “I want names.”

“I don’t know! I don’t know… I couldn’t see their faces!”

“What did they look like? You will answer me, or I--”

There was a whistle, followed by a sickening noise of metal hitting flesh. Kynril screamed and dropped to one knee, his left hand reaching across to his other shoulder. An arrow shaft stuck out through his robes, still crackling with shock magic.

Rachel turned around. Two more Nords were there. One of them was still holding a glowing hunting bow.

“You’re both too nosy for your own good,” said the third man. “And the elf is too much trouble….”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The men drew maces and advanced on Kynril. He faced them, hand shaking, struggling to cast another spell. Nothing happened.

This isn’t right, Rachel thought, as her heart started to pound faster. This can’t be happening….

The magicked man got up, and hefted his warhammer again.

No.

Thoughts started to race too. If only Kynril were armored and hadn’t been shot. If only someone else had joined them.

If only she were bigger, stronger. Not some mage. Something huge.

Suddenly, there _was_. There was _something_ huge, but it was in her chest, and mind, something trying to boil over. Something like a spell charged far too long, biting and clawing to escape, something that needed to be cast, _now_ ….

The men were closing in, and her vision was clouding….

It couldn’t end like this. Not for either of them.

She watched, it seemed, as she stepped in front of Kynril, her presence somehow crowding the hall, blocking the men.

Not like _this_ …!

Their attackers halted. Rachel was suddenly aware again, suddenly back in her own body. But she was a lot taller than all of them, and breathing loudly, snarling, through a mouth that felt too long….

“Werewolf!” cried the man behind them. Rachel heard him turn and run, back through the door he’d come in from.

That was one man down.

She quickly considered her options, thankful that considering anything was still in her capabilities. What did werewolves do again, besides go on Hircinic rampages and eat people?

“D...Don’t just stand there! Put that thing down!”

The bowman fired another arrow. She shielded her face and knew the arrow had hit her arm, but the pain didn’t come. She looked. It had drawn some blood, but the head was still visible over the _fur_ ….

The men watched in horror as she picked it out with her other hand and snapped it.

As long as they were easily frightened, there _was_ a way to get past them. Without killing them.

She slammed one heavy wolf foot into the floor and roared at them, then lunged. They threw themselves out of the way, and she turned back…. Kynril was on his feet again.

She tried to shout at him to run, but it came out as some daedric bark, and he recoiled. She carefully stretched out her good paw.

“Are you… there?” he asked, glancing from her to their attackers and back.

She nodded, and barked again.

The Nords were recovering, and determined again.

“Stop them!” cried the bowman. “Kill the monster and the elf!”

There was no more time. Rachel seized the Thalmor around the middle and ran back through the Hall of the Dead on her other three paws, while he shouted incoherently next to her. She nearly crashed into the walls a few times, underestimating her speed, failing to judge how long she needed to turn and wrecking the long undisturbed offerings to the dead. If the men were still following, there were a lot of overturned urns and some broken tables in their path now.

They burst out of the tombs, and she scrambled to a halt in front of Brother Verulus.

Brother Verulus began screaming and running for his life.

Kynril cursed in Altmeris next to her. “What did you expect? You need to change back, now.”

She stared at him.

“Please tell me you know how to change back.”

There was another whistle. An arrow flew just over her ear and bounced off the wall behind her. In the distance, near the entrance to the antechamber, there was a growing mass of dark green and gray armor.

Not only that, but a large _thing_ made of ice was stomping its way toward them.

“Calcelmo, stop!” Kynril yelled. “That’s an order!”

Rachel grabbed him and tried to put him on her back. He seemed to understand, and wrapped his good arm and legs around her oversized body while she bolted past the frost atronach and at the crowd of guards.

The guards scattered. She felt the pressure of arrows all over, and the bite of a sword somewhere near her hindquarters, but kept running.

She scrambled to turn toward the main hall, thinking of shelter in Ghorza's quarters or with the Thalmor, and was only stopped by Kynril tugging on her ear. “No, not that way, you’ll be killed!”

She barked and snarled for directions as the guards came back to their senses. Then it hit her. There was another way out.

The doors to the city were open.

“What are you thinking?” Kynril gripped her shoulders tighter. She ignored him and bounded out into the dark evening.

She wasn’t sure where she was running, though she turned south. The forge? No. Too open. Mines? Ridiculous. Other way into the Hall of the Dead? That wasn’t such a bad idea; maybe she could confuse the guards and lose them….

But there was a commotion ahead. She smelled the blood on the air before she saw it -- at least a dozen people in loose hide armor, in masks made of deer antlers, falling upon the city guard.

Her claws clattered against the stony road as she made a hasty turn.

She couldn’t go back to the keep; the guards weren’t far behind. And more were running down from the city guard tower….

Her eyes turned to the Temple of Dibella, high above the city…. And then downward, to the crag.

Without waiting another second, she ran for the Shrine of Talos. If anyone saw, they were too distracted by the Forsworn escape to do anything about it. Rachel shoved the door open, stepped inside in an unwerewolfish manner, and closed it behind her.

Kynril chose then to slip off her back.

“This is… not the worst idea,” he grunted, walking cautiously down the slope. “I think we’re alone now.”

She followed him. The scent of smoke was thicker than she remembered. Then again, wolves had good noses. But there were no other people, man or mer.

Safe.

She padded around the statue, waiting, bristling, but the door never opened.

They were safe.

Kynril gritted his teeth and pulled the arrow from his shoulder, snarling and cursing under his breath. More blood came, but the arrow was whole, and with a restoration spell on his fingertips he healed the wound closed. He allowed himself to relax, and inspected the arrow, rolling it between his fingers.

So safe.

She circled the shrine again, circled like the dragon coiled around Talos' feet. But there was no sword in _her_ mouth. It was as good as one, if she needed it. Better than one. But she didn't.

Kynril sat down. He was no longer reaching into his magicka. He did not watch the door.

Safe was a heavy word.... Like the tiredness after a long day at the forge, or a great bearskin cloak to block the Morning Star cold.

She could feel the stings in her arms and legs now. The ache of the cut somewhere near her tail. The strange weight in her head….

She was barely aware as she collapsed behind the statue of Talos, and fell asleep.

\--

The next thing Rachel knew, her front was very cold. She was lying face-down in the shrine. And for some reason, there was a large black robe draped over her body.

“I thought it best to… preserve your dignity,” Kynril said somewhere above her. “You have my robe. For now. Try not to destroy that.”

He was sitting, staring at the statue as she had done over a week ago, his back to the wall. Except for a pair of trousers, he was naked. The mer averted his eyes while she sat up and put the robe on properly. Her body ached and stung.

“What happened? Why was I... uh... naked?”

“You do remember turning into a giant wolf, I hope?”

“But… my clothes?”

“Probably in pieces, back in the Hall of the Dead.”

Rachel sat down next to him, reeling as the fog of exhaustion slowly lifted, and the memories began to play through her mind.

“I believe I owe you my thanks,” Kynril said. “Since we’re both still alive. Good dog!”

A large hand patted her on the head, and she felt repulsed. It was degrading. Praise, but degrading. And praise she didn't deserve, no matter how humiliating it was, said the ever-smug voice of despair.

“It’s my fault you were shot! If I hadn’t dragged you along…”

“Then you would probably be dead, or alone right now. I shudder to imagine what might have become of you, had I not followed as you asked.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Okay, so that was true.

“Thanks for following me,” Rachel said, “but I never should have gone.”

“It was what you needed to do,” Kynril told her. “But… think about it this way. Ren’dar gave you the idea. But, someone else locked him up first. Because he needed to investigate them.” Rachel stared up at him, but he kept going. “Because, among other things, you were… in our care. And you were there because Ren’dar saw you sneak in here. You decided to sneak here because of a note from a man, after you witnessed a near murder in the market. A murder that was probably ordered by Thonar Silver-Blood.”

“Are you… really saying that you getting shot is all Thonar Silver-Blood’s fault?”

“Yes.”

Damn the elf. Rachel wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or laugh.

“It was still a terrible idea,” she said.

Kynril held up the papers and the journal. “If you say so, human. But it was fruitful. Besides, my shoulder will heal.”

Something else was bothering her.

“Kynril…? How long have we been here?”

“I’m not sure. It’s probably been a few hours. The candles have certainly burned down…. But I didn’t think it was safe to move you, or leave you alone.”

She shivered and pulled the robe tighter around her, trying to shoo away the thought that she was _out of time_.

“What happens now?”

“Ondolemar should find us soon. He’s good at that.”

“And then? When he does?” Rachel asked, apprehensive, as she remembered that the mer was angry at her, and Kynril wasn't on the best terms with him lately either. “What’ll we do?”

“Well, you are a werewolf with two escapes on your record now, one of which happened on my watch....” Kynril muttered. “And I failed to report back in a timely manner after finding you.”

“So... we die then?” she asked, in what she hoped was a light, joking tone.

As the seconds began to tick by, she wished Kynril would say something. Laugh. Scoff at her for presuming to know what the Thalmor would do. Take a jab at humans for being so needlessly barbaric they expected the same from their elven conquerors.

“We give him what we found and then beg for forgiveness. In a manner befitting a dignified soldier and humble servant of the Aldmeri Dominion, of course.”

“Says the elf with no shirt on.”

He finally gave a small, pained smile. “You are not being recaptured in the nude, so be quiet.”

She stretched her arms and legs; her scabs protested. “Shouldn't we go and find him ourselves? Prove we're loyal and all that?”

“That might improve what little standing we have left, but I’d much rather wait. The city was in chaos when you brought me here. And I don’t want the guards to see me and remember us.”

She froze. “How many people know I’m a werewolf now?”

“You left those mercenaries alive. I’ll be shocked if they haven’t informed the guard by now. Better for them to worry about the Forsworn.”

She briefly considered the idea that she could have mauled the Nords who had attacked them. And then eaten their bodies. Then they would have told nobody, and she wouldn't feel so tired and hungry while they sat and waited.

No, that was disgusting. All of it.

\--

Finally, after the longest time, the door opened and closed again. Rousing from what had nearly been a nervous sleep, she heard the familiar Altmeri gait, and the sound of boots on the stone floor. Rachel wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or scared.

Ondolemar, eyes narrowed with anger, hands glowing brightly with some kind of spell, saw them sitting in the back corner almost immediately. But when he rounded the Talos statue and got a better look at the half-naked elf and the robed human, his face relaxed somewhat. The glow disappeared from his hands.

“Tell me this _isn’t_ a tryst,” he said, massaging his forehead.

“This isn't a tryst.”

Rachel looked at Kynril. His jaw was set, but his eyes were afraid, and there was no humor in his voice.

“So… how is Ren’dar…?” she asked slowly.

“Alive and well, for the time being.” Ondolemar looked older now, and weary. “And as for you, I’m here to deal with a derelict justiciar and a werewolf.”

“Wait, you can’t hurt Kynril!” Rachel threw an arm across the sitting elf’s chest.

“Breton, you cannot begin to imagine the position you have put me in, or the consequences you will face.”

Kynril slowly pushed her arm away. “We give ourselves up, and have been waiting here to do so, my lord.”

Lord. That was a new one. The gravity of it, though, was startling. And Ondolemar was not impressed.

“Enough of your flattery, Kynril.”

“I don't think after tonight I have the right to address you as my commander. But before you pass judgment, we need to give you these.” Kynril held up the journal and the arrest warrants in shaking hands.

Ondolemar paused. Then accepted them. Then read them, in the abundant light of the shrine.

“Where did you get this....”

“Ren’dar hid them before he was arrested,” Rachel said. “He asked us to get them back, and make sure you got them.”

“And he did this, instead of informing me?” Ondolemar flipped through the journal. “No matter. This… may prove useful. Thonar Silver-Blood is dead now and out of my grasp. He was struck down by the Forsworn during the chaos this evening. But... I daresay this will weaken Thongvor’s standing with the court and his Jarl.”

He read the arrest warrant. “Hm. My guess was correct. It appears the guard tried to frame you even as I held you out of their reach.”

Ondolemar turned back to them. “So, you wish to bargain with this?”

“No, I give that to you freely.” Kynril sounded sincere, but the look on Ondolemar’s face could have frozen a mammoth. Kynril changed tactics, and shifted so that he knelt floor. “I would be foolish… if I considered myself in a position to bargain with you. I fear I am… that both of us... are beyond your tolerance now, and--”

“Get on with it, boy.”

Kynril flinched, and lowered his head. “I beg for your pardon. At least for this human.”

There was a tense moment, in which the robed Thalmor glared down at the back of Kynril’s head, and Rachel wondered if it would be better to follow his lead and bow down or stay still. But the other elf did not so much as glance at her.

“Explain yourselves, then,” Ondolemar finally said. “And for your sakes, don’t try to hide any of the details.”

They related the entire story, from Rachel’s doubts to the escape they planned, that Kynril had aided at the last minute. How they had gone into the tombs to retrieve the evidence Ren’dar had left behind, and how they had been ambushed. That out of fear or desperation, Rachel had taken the form of a beast to defend them both and flee. How they had fled every guard and combatant in the keep, and sought a hiding place, quickly settling on the shrine, and not felt safe leaving until he inevitably came to retrieve them.

And of course they had trusted him to come get them. Kynril explained further, wandering into a metaphor about hawks. And that was where Ondolemar abruptly stopped him.

Ondolemar turned the journal over in his hands. “Rise, both of you. I cannot simply overlook your escape, Breton. Or your part in it, Kynril. But I am impressed by your initiative, and pleased with your cooperation. I may be able to grant a lighter sentence.”

Kynril did not look very relieved. Still, he bowed his head. “I thank you.”

“Don’t,” Ondolemar warned, walking back to the front of the shrine. They followed him. “We have much to discuss. As for you, Breton. It has just occurred to me…. I think you’ve escaped my judgment, but I will be forced to turn you over to the guards.”

“What?” she and Kynril blurted out. “Why?”

“The eighth day has passed.” Ondolemar stopped in front of the Talos statue. “As you have not confessed, and I have no evidence to present to the Jarl, I can no longer hold you for heresy. I also cannot ignore the Dominion’s obligations to the Empire and allow you to escape.”

“My lord, please!” Kynril yelped, image of a proper soldier dropped. “There must be something you can do. You can’t just--”

“I can’t do anything,” Ondolemar said, folding his arms and looking directly at Rachel, “without two things: another reason to arrest her in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion, and evidence.”

She understood immediately.

“She was willing to confess hours ago, before we were trapped in here.”

“Understandable, but unfortunately irrelevant.”

“You were willing to lie before to protect her before,” Kynril groaned. “What is the harm in--”

“I'll come peacefully,” Rachel said, nudging Kynril's arm. He fell silent. “There's just one thing I want to do first.”

“Make it quick,” yawned Ondolemar.

Rachel knelt at the feet of the statue. It stared back down at her, unseeing, solemn. Not caring for the things that transpired before it. She hoped the Altmer were listening. “Talos, guide me.”

For extra effect, she made to lay a hand on the shrine. Kynril started and tried to block it. What happened next surprised all three of them. His hand had brushed the shrine – by accident – but the damage was done. His entire body was momentarily enveloped in an ethereal light.

“Kyn, why,” Rachel asked. “Why in Oblivion did you _do_ that?”

“It’s not a blessing,” Kynril said, looking at his hand as the glow faded. “It’s some enchantment from whatever heathen priest manages this shrine under our nose. And it will wear off soon enough, as all such enchantments do.” He rolled his eyes. “Besides, I think you’re already under arrest again. There’s no need for more of this **f** _ **U**_ **S** s!”

The last word came out like thunder, in a blast that shook the very room and knocked Ondolemar off his feet.

Kynril’s jaw fell open. Then he closed it, and covered his mouth with both hands. He gazed in sheer horror, first at the shrine, then Rachel who had been shoved over onto her side, and finally at Ondolemar, who had quickly pulled himself to his feet, looking livid.

“Oh, Auri-El....” Kynril whimpered through his hands. “What just.... Why did that....”

“Is that even normal?” Rachel asked, sitting up and experimentally placing a hand on the shrine. Nothing happened.

“No. This is… most irregular.” Ondolemar pulled her away from the shrine, onto her feet. “But yes. As Kynril was saying, I will need to place you under arrest after all. Both of you.”

“For heresy?”

“Don’t look so hopeful. I can’t offer you quite the same leniency I would have been able to grant a day ago. But yes.”


	10. Chapter 10

She sat at one of the tables, the very next day, reading the words on the paper before her.

“So… I just sign this, saying I confess and repent, and you give it to the Jarl?” Rachel asked.

“Correct.”

“And then you won’t kill me, or torture me, or anything?”

“You are exceedingly lucky that Markarth is my station,” Ondolemar said for the second time that week. She took that as a yes. “But you have a long period of service to fill, in penance for your heresy.”

She didn’t want to argue with that. Even though the previous night's heresy had been fake, and they both knew it, or so she hoped.

“And when the First Emissary finds out…?”

“She will be less inclined to spare a brazen, lycanthropic, four-time heretic, but I may be able to persuade her that you are harmless, and perhaps useful.”

She fiddled with the pen. “I could stall for another eight days,” she whispered, “while you confirm that.”

It might have been exhaustion, but his face betrayed him at last. She might as well have suggested that he strip naked and fondle the stoney nether-regions of the Talos statue, for the look he gave her. “We are not playing that game again, Breton.”

“Only joking, sir,” said Rachel. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am that you gave me more time?”

“Only several times since you crawled out of bed.”

There was no more point in delaying. She pulled the paper closer, raised the pen, and signed.

“This should clear your bounty in the Reach,” Ondolemar told her. “But I’d advise you to wait until that is done before you speak to Ghorza. She will expect you after I’ve informed her of your decision myself.”

“Thank you.”

“Ah, and one more thing.” He stood, and picked up the confession. “With this, you are no longer a citizen of Markarth, Skyrim, or the Empire. But I trust you remember that.”

She nodded slowly.

“Then I welcome you to the arms of the Aldmeri Dominion. Now... I don't have any work for you today. You may rest.”

Ondolemar left the room, taking the signed confession with him.

Discomfort began to settle over Rachel again. She turned to look at the rest of the barracks, acutely aware that everyone else in the room was no longer just her jailer, but her superior.

The Thalmor continued to disregard her presence. Better that than immediately being lorded over, she supposed.

Kynril was sitting on his bed, not in his gown or a robe, but in a plain, faded tunic, much like the one that had been given to Rachel when they’d returned in the early hours of the morning. Unlike her, his hands and feet were in irons. Despite that, he read, as if nothing had happened.

She walked to his bedside. He did not look up.

“Kynril? Um, if it’s still okay for me to call you that?”

“This is the first time it’s been acceptable,” he replied. “But only because you and I are now of the same status.”

“What about Kyn?”

“That means ‘dremora’. Particularly those in the service of Mehrunes Dagon.”

That was probably a no.

“What was I supposed to call you before?”

“'Sir' would have been appropriate. 'Lord', if you considered your place as a mere human. The difference in status determines how you address people.”

“Oh. I... I see.”

“And as a human subject of Alinor, 'lord' is how I suggest you address everyone else in this room, with the exception of myself and Ren'dar.” He smiled wanly. “Ondolemar was always 'lord' to you, but as you have seen, he tends to be... rather patient about these things.”

“You called him that last night,” she whispered. “Why?”

Kynril flushed. “That was groveling, but not inappropriate given our circumstances.”

He paused and handed her a new book.

“A primer on Altmeri etiquette,” he said. “Study it. Become it. It may save your life in the future, if Ondolemar is ever to present you to his superiors.”

“Am I… actually going to be some kind of pet, then?” Rachel frowned.

“Oh, he wouldn’t keep you around just to sit there and look pretty. I’m sure he has something in mind for you. But knowing him, the work will be tolerable for you and useful for him. Don’t fret.”

“What about you?”

Kynril let out a long breath. “I’ve been spared execution. Whether that is a mercy remains to be seen.”

“Don’t look so down,” said Ren’dar from across the room. “You are alive. Savor it.”

The elf gave him a hard look, before addressing Rachel again. “This is all your fault, you overdramatic dog.”

“A lot of things have been my fault this week,” she replied bitterly. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not talking about then.”

He passed the book he was reading to her.

“‘ _The Book of the Dragonborn_ ’,” she read. “‘ _Order of Talos, Weynon Priory_ ’? Why are you…”

“It was confiscated from another prisoner, a long time ago,” said Kynril. “Ondolemar thinks it is relevant, after last night’s… incident.”

“He thinks you’re Dragonborn?”

“Most people don’t gain the thu’um after touching a shrine of Talos. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. But the shrines of Talos… they don’t function. The amulets heathens carry have no true blessing. For this to happen, it can only mean….”

“You sound like a heretic right row….” Ren’dar flattened his ears and glanced around the room. “Do not make this worse for yourself, little dragon.”

“I’m not sure how it could get worse.”

“You could be killed.”

“As I already said, that might be--”

“I think the girl would miss you if you were killed,” Ren’dar grinned, his tail twitching.

Rachel excused herself then, and remembered she didn’t have anywhere to go. Yet. She went back to the table and opened that etiquette book.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, she was awakened by Ren’dar prodding her shoulder.

“You need to speak to Ondolemar, urgently.”

Rachel sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. It felt too early to be awake.

Ondolemar was seated at the usual table, directly across from Kynril. Rachel crossed the room sleepily, wincing at the cold stone on her bare feet, and took the chair next to Kynril. Ren’dar followed her.

“I regret that it came to this,” Ondolemar said in a low voice. “But you, all three of you, can no longer exist in Markarth.”

The words hit Rachel like a dropped steel ingot, but Kynril and Ren’dar’s faces were once again the image of Thalmor stoicism.

“Despite my position, I can not currently guarantee your safety,” he continued. “Kynril, you are hereby suspended from my service, to be recalled at a later time. I cannot say when.

“Ren’dar, Rachel…. You are now in Kynril’s service. Your obedience is expected. His word is second only to mine, or my superiors. And I trust your new master will treat you well, and use your abilities only in an appropriate manner.”

“If we can’t stay in Markarth, where are we going?” Kynril asked.

“I would suggest Whiterun. It’s outside the Reach, and the Markarth city guard and Silver-Bloods cannot pursue you. It is also preferable to being closer to the embassy, until I smooth things over with the First Emissary.” Ondolemar leaned forward. “You need not concern yourself with that. Use this opportunity to discover more about yourself.

“Oh, but beware the local Jarl, and mind your actions. Balgruuf the Greater is a wiser man than Igmund. As long as you are suspended, you do not have the authority of the Thalmor, or the already limited protection from Skyrim’s laws I could offer otherwise.”

“And if we’re pursued by agents of the First Emissary?”

“Like I said, with your current status, the Thalmor cannot pry you out of the cold, hairy grip of Skyrim law. Commit any crime in plain sight... short of murder, please... and submit to arrest. Just wait until you're out of the Reach before you go shoving your hands into people's pockets.”

Rachel snorted, but Ondolemar’s face did not change. He was completely serious.

“One more thing, Breton....”

She froze, expecting a reprimand, but he merely reached into his robes and withdrew something round, smooth, and silvery on a little chain. He turned it over in his hand, considering, then clasped it between his palms. There was a faint glow of magic, and then a flash between his hands. When he opened them again, something had been carved into the amulet.

“It won't hurt you; it's made of steel,” said Ondolemar. “Bow your head.”

She did so, and he reached forward and slipped the necklace over her head. It was just a bit heavier than it looked....

“That will speak for you if Kynril cannot. It bears my sigil, and all Thalmor in Skyrim should recognize it.”

She lifted the amulet so she could see it clearly.

“No, the other side.”

“Is that... half an apple?” Rachel asked.

“A bear trap,” Ondolemar said, with a faint smile. “Keep that on you at all times. To other Thalmor, it identifies you as one of my assets, and no harm will come to you unless, as I mentioned, the First Emissary herself has other ideas.”

She turned the amulet over.

“That side is the reason you are in my service,” continued Ondolemar. “In your case, a chalice of Stendarr. Which means exactly what you are probably thinking, and a bit more.”

\--

They were escorted, by two justiciars, to the gates a few hours later. Not in prisoner clothes, thankfully, but something a little warmer and more suitable for travel. She had been given a spare mage’s robe, at Kynril’s recommendation. It was light, but warm, and the dark cloth and hood gave her a welcome feeling of ease.

Ghorza had wanted to outfit her with something more sturdy when she went to say her goodbyes, but conceded to giving a spare set of leather armor to Kynril when Rachel told her that he would be the one with the sword.

A steel sword he had to purchase himself, albeit with the funds granted by Ondolemar. Rachel thought he would hate the idea, since his elven equipment had to stay behind and there was no true replacement in the keep’s smithing quarters, or all of Markarth. But he spent several minutes admiring the craftsmanship of the hilt and scabbard after he had paid.

Ghorza spent that time showing Rachel how to handle a light hide shield. If nothing else, she insisted she take that with her. Rachel did not turn that down. Wards didn’t block everything.

As for Ren’dar, he took common clothes again. Nice and light, and it didn’t make him stand out like a robe would.

Their escort left them once the city gates were opened.

There was a long road ahead of them, winding down the mountain slope, stretching beyond the mines and farms. The clouds were already thick that morning.

“Well, shall we take the carriage?” Kynril proposed.

Rachel nearly tripped and fell the rest of the way down the steps. “You’re… not going to drag us all the way on foot? Like the Thalmor do to prisoners?”

“You’re a servant now, not a prisoner. And even if you were, I’m not some ruthless justiciar who would insist on making you march to your own doom. I don’t even think all of us have the strength for such a march.”

Indeed, Ren’dar was puffing along behind them, still weakened from his recent ordeal. Kynril supported him for the rest of the way, and helped him up into the carriage when they finally arrived minutes later.

The driver was paid, and the horse began to walk.

In a matter of minutes, the city was far behind them. The carriage reached the old dwarven bridge over the Karth River.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Markarth was far behind them. The threat of the guards and the mines was in the past. But there was uncertainty ahead.

They all heard it -- the sudden flap of oversized wings, and the drawn out scream of some beast with a throat too large and long to be mortal. The driver brought the carriage to sudden halt. Something huge, something that should have existed only in myth, flew overhead, casting a large shadow over the mountain road, and continued eastward, disappearing into the clouds.

A dragon.

The future held uncertainty... and dragons.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now continued in The Penitent.


End file.
